


Five Stages of Grief

by Snoozydog



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Character Death, Dying Sherlock Holmes, Five Stages of Grief, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Grieving John Watson, Love, M/M, Missed Opportunities, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Regrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-25 20:30:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18171101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog
Summary: That is almost what he fears the most.Not being able to handle being left alone, without Sherlock, knowing that he could never be like this again, spending a Sunday evening lying naked, post sex, on their living room carpet, just the two of them, still slightly breathless after their activities, sleep lurking just around the corner and the alluring temptation of slipping down under the covers of their shared bed that stands in what used to be Sherlock’s bedroom but now is theirs and soon will be no ones.John can’t imagine that he will ever be able to sleep in there again after Sherlock is gone.





	Five Stages of Grief

“How come it’s you who’s going to die first? I’m older than you, and in far less good shape. You were always the invincible one for God’s sake!”

“You know it doesn’t work that way. Age has nothing to do with it and yes, even if your body carries a bit of extra weight these days and you don’t have the same stamina anymore, you took care of yourself when it mattered apparently, while I didn’t. Drugs, cigarettes, eating too little, sleeping even less, despite what I used to say about the body being mere transport, in the end it is the body that gets you. If he was still around, you could have asked Mycroft. Despite his constant dieting his body betrayed him in the end too. Cardiac arrest at 55, that’s not even a proper age to go.”

John knows this, he is a doctor after all. But the human side of him, the one who is simply a man about to lose the purpose of living for the second time in his life, he can’t grasp the situation and instead he attacks the unfairness of it all by acting out like a child. He hasn't given the matter of death much thought to be honest, which is surprising considering circumstances. He knows it's the end game and all that, they have walked in death's shadow on numeral occasions, Sherlock even more so than him. But still, the concept is difficult to grasp, impossible to take in.

Sherlock had delivered the news in his usual, very practical sort of way, while sitting at the breakfast table, John with the morning paper he insisted on getting despite Sherlock thinking it a complete waste when you could read everything you needed online. 

Sherlock had been going through the mail. Another remnant from the past that kept getting smaller and smaller as time went by, on account of everything being handled differently these days. But there were still some things that had to be delivered in the traditional way of a letter. 

Like news from your doctor.

John didn’t know that Sherlock had even been to see one, he had always considered himself to be the only doctor Sherlock would ever have the need for. But apparently that wasn’t the case.

He had noticed Sherlock going through the small bundle of mail while sitting opposite him by the breakfast table. He hadn’t made any obvious gestures when reading the letter, not that John could remember, looking back. In fact, John hadn’t even known that he was doing something of importance before Sherlock cleared his throat, the letter still in his hand, proclaiming that he apparently was dying. 

At first it just seems strange, John lowering the paper he is reading, looking at Sherlock with a frowned brow, not understanding what his friend is saying. Sherlock sighs and waves the letter in front of him.

“It says so here. Cancer. Terminal. In the liver and the pancreas.”

The way he delivers it speaks of no obvious emotional impact, he is merely stating facts and perhaps that is what initially makes it difficult for John to grasp the essence of the situation. Or perhaps his brain simply has a blockage when it comes to Sherlock Holmes disappearing from his life ever again. There had been those two awful years after all. He can still, although rarely these days, have nightmares about that time. It was pure darkness, the most terrible period of his whole life and he never ever wants to experience something like it again. 

But now apparently he is going to have to.

“What do you mean?” He finally manages, hearing his voice as from a distance. 

Sherlock raises one of his eyebrows in that infuriating way he does when he can’t grasp the stupidity of his surroundings, and it raises John’s hackles, because this is _not_ the appropriate the time. He can’t deal with Sherlock being a superior arsehole right now. 

“I thought I was fairly straight forward. This is a letter from my physician and in it he states that I have stage 4 cancer which is the equivalent of terminal. It is mainly in my pancreas and liver but has been spreading, rapidly it seems. I have approximately three months left, perhaps less, most certainly not more. And before you start arguing that news like these should not be delivered by mail I can inform you that I asked for it specifically. I am not inclined to sit in a doctor’s office listening to someone delivering information that could very well just be written down very shortly and to the point in a letter instead.”

And this is the moment where everything around John Watson slowly turns black.  
He can see Sherlock raising both eyebrows, this time in surprise, beginning to get up from where he is sitting. But by then the lights have gone out inside John's head.

As he eventually regains consciousness, he is laid out on the sofa, Sherlock sitting in his chair, observing him, a small sign of relief in his eyes as John starts blinking against the sun coming in through the window. 

At first he doesn’t even remember what happened, he just looks down at his body, searching for clues and then over to Sherlock, ready to ask questions. That's the second his brain catches up and the reason for him passing out comes rushing back.

Sherlock is dying.

No. 

He can’t cope with this. Not again. He always swore that he would never go through this with Sherlock a second time, defying all logic stating that they would eventually grow old and death would be the natural ending. But Sherlock isn’t old. He isn’t even 50 yet.  
And still he is going to leave John behind, and this time he isn’t going to come back. 

John's mind goes straight to denial.

“What exactly does the letter say? You should always look for a second opinion, everyone knows that. Doctors make mistakes too you know. I have a colleague…”

Sherlock raises his hand to stop the torrent of words coming from John’s mouth.

“This doctor _is_ the second one. The first doctor said the same thing. I have gone through the necessary procedures, I just didn’t want to tell you until I was absolutely certain. Now I am. There is no other option than to accept it.”

John stares at him.

Sherlock at 49 is not that different from Sherlock at 39 and it feels like they just celebrated his 40th birthday yesterday.  
John didn’t know Sherlock at 29 but he is fairly sure there wouldn’t be that much difference to that person either. Sherlock has always been Sherlock after all.  
The dramatic persona, larger than life, arrogant as few, intellect like no one else, with the swishy coat, slim fit suits, curls and cheekbones. He is still all of that, he never aged. 

Unlike John who is 54, one year away from the age when Mycroft died.  
Once it had felt like they would never get there, being over 50 was for other people, 55 for men like Mycroft and Lestrade, the aging ones. Those who didn’t run and chase adventures like he and Sherlock did. 

But when John sees himself in the mirror in the morning there are lines on his face, and not fine ones either. They run deep and mark his forehead, as well as the area around his mouth and eyes. Because he has laughed a lot as well as mourned and that will do this to you apparently. 

He is a bit stout these days as well. Harry says it’s the typical Watson body type, short and solid, she looks the same way.  
It doesn’t bother him that much. He wishes he could lose a few pounds around the middle but at the same time he doesn’t want to forego the beer at the pub or the occasional splurging dinner at Angelo’s. He can live with those extra pounds, they only annoy him a bit when he lies in bed next to Sherlock, who is still as trim and lithe as he always was. The man has always insisted on existing on air alone when working cases. John is fairly sure he wouldn’t trade his Sunday roast for a trimmer waist under those conditions.

His hair turned grey ages ago. He got used to it fairly quickly, it happened even before he hit 40, so he began to call it sand-coloured and was fine with it.  
He was fine with all of it, because inside, he felt like the first day he met Sherlock, still young and fit and vivacious, it didn’t change because his appearance did.

But now everything actually will change.

Because apparently Sherlock is dying and he is leaving John on his own again.

He doesn’t want to talk about it and Sherlock doesn’t say anything either. 

They go about the day as they had planned, go out for a walk in Regent’s park, get Chinese food from that shop where the owner owes Sherlock a favour (apparently there is a whole string of restauranteurs all over London willing to give free food on account of something Sherlock did for them once). He never reveal any details on those particular cases and John has never asked. 

They enjoy the food in the living room and not in the kitchen, eating in silence and everything would be almost like any other day when neither of them are working, just enjoying a bit of free time in each other’s company. The difference is of course the silence.

Sherlock has always been able to stay silent for long periods of time, it was one of the first things he told John after all, when they were about to move in together. But this is different, this is supressing, and it makes John want to scream and smash something with his fists, but he won’t, because it will change nothing. 

Anger is what he is feeling though. Anger over the unfairness of it all.

Why is this happening to them when they have finally made it this far, when they are no longer kept apart by different circumstances? Now that they are happy together, actually content with life as it is and everything that matters is the time they get to spend with each other?

There had been so many obstacles in the past, not least of all themselves and their inability to communicate their feelings for each other. It feels strange to consider it now, but there was a time when they just walked around pining for each other without realising what that ache inside them was all about.  
He has to admit that he might have been the most blind in that regard. He did after all marry another person.  
He felt the uneasy ache in his heart every day, sensing that he was about to make a huge mistake but then went along with the wedding anyway. 

As he remembers it, it was partly out of spite. He resented Sherlock for keeping him in the dark those two years when he was supposedly dead but instead chased Moriarty’s henchmen around the globe without whispering so much as a word about it to his so called one and only friend. So John decided that he wasn’t going to come running back to Baker Street just because Sherlock had returned.  
Instead he went along with the marriage to Mary and stuck to it for almost a whole year. He felt miserable the entire time and yet stubbornness was preventing him from changing anything, stupid denial keeping him away from Sherlock. 

Such a pointless waste.

He gets even angrier the more he thinks about it. All that time they could have had together but they both, for different reasons, wasted it instead, probably thinking that time was of no essence, pride and resentment coming first. 

How stupid.

He remembers thinking that if Moriarty hadn’t caught wind of Sherlock, would it all have turned out differently? Would they have succumbed much earlier to their feelings or would they have remained in denial because they always had their friendship first and foremost to lean on? Would they have counted on that friendship being enough for them to get by on? 

They had lost so much time in the past and now there was suddenly no time left for the future.

To top it off, they are wasting even more of it by sitting in silence now, not making the best of what they have left, because John is too angry to do anything else but stew in his own misery.  
And God knows what Sherlock is thinking… 

When evening comes the anger slowly dissipates.

He clears the table while Sherlock is sitting in front of his microscope looking at some slides.  
John watches him from behind his back. The tight dark blue shirt fits perfectly over his shoulders, disappearing into his narrow trousers, the belt accentuating the slim waist and John feels the urge to slip his fingers beneath the belt, pull up the shirt and feel the warm skin underneath. The warm, very much alive body that still exists in front of him, his very own Sherlock who is sitting there, oblivious to John’s loving gaze, his neck a bit bent over the microscope, the curls teasing at the shirt collar.  
John steps forward, extending his hand and buries it inside the crown of hair, feeling the silky quality under his fingers, relishing the feel of life. 

This can’t be a man who is about to die within three months, maybe less. 

He looks exactly like he always does, John can feel his pulse quickening when his hand travels down from the hair to the neck and then slipping even further, to the collar of the shirt, fumbling with sudden eager with the button up front.

He really needs this now. Needs to feel this body the way it is, right this minute. Who knows how long it will last, how many more times he will have the opportunity? 

He wishes he could offer up his own liver or pancreas, which, as far as he knows, are functioning like they should. He wants to make a bargain, offer his life for Sherlock’s and if he could he would.  
Sherlock wouldn’t let him though, if that possibility even was available.  
As a doctor John knows that it isn’t, the cancer has spread, it is too late.  
But as a human being, not as the practical man of medicine, he still wishes that he could have had the option. He would do anything, _anything_ for this to go away. To have the body of the man he loves, who he now has sitting in front of him, leaning in to his touch, being able to feel that soft warm skin beneath his fingertips, for all eternity.

Sherlock rises from where he is sitting and lowers his head so their lips can meet. John drowns in the feeling, succumbing to the sensation that is raging inside of him while his hands work their way over Sherlock’s body, yanking at the shirt, unbuttoning his trousers. It feels like he is on fire, the skin beneath the clothes the only thing managing to both calm him and at the same time urging him on in his ravenous fever to undress first Sherlock and then himself. 

They end up on the carpet and normally he would most likely complain that it is too filthy and uncomfortable to be doing what they are about to do, his back already growling about the hard surface. But today he says nothing, merely lets his hands wander over endless planes of skin, the curly hair, that beautiful face with all the impressive angles, the plush mouth devouring him as he takes a firm grip of the equally plush buttocks, squeezing them before caressing the soft skin, trying to remember every little detail of this body that he has known for what felt like a long time but really was too short.

The initial lust induced ferocity slows down and eventually they end up actually making love in the slowest possible way, taking their time, prolonging every movement, none of them wishing for it to end. When it finally does and Sherlock lies there spent next to John, he can feel the desperation clawing inside his throat, threatening to cut off his ability to breathe. 

How ironic it would be if he suffocated right now, here on this carpet, naked, still partly entangled with Sherlock’s body. 

Being the one to go first and not be the person who is left behind. 

That is almost what he fears the most. Not being able to handle being left alone, without Sherlock, knowing that he could never be like this again, spending a Sunday evening lying naked, post sex, on their living room carpet, just the two of them, still slightly breathless after their activities, sleep lurking just around the corner and the alluring temptation of slipping down under the covers of their shared bed that stands in what used to be Sherlock’s bedroom but now is theirs and soon will be no ones. John can’t imagine that he will ever be able to sleep in there again after Sherlock is gone. 

He can’t help the ragged breath that escapes him, he can hear the desperation in it and he knows Sherlock can hear it too. None of them say anything about it, they remain lying next to each other instead, staring up at the ceiling, watching the shadows creep over the room as the sun is setting outside. 

Something inside John is breaking slowly, it is sorrow taking over him from the inside and he lets it happen. Because there is nothing he can do about it. 

When he finally gets up from the floor it is dark outside.  
Sherlock is still lying on the floor, eyes closed, breathing so lightly his ribcage doesn’t even move.  
John looks at him, like he has so many times before, with a heart swelling with tenderness. For a second it overshadows the newfound sorrow that is spreading inside of him, trying to sink its hooks around his heart, threatening to engulf every other emotion. 

He knows every inch of that man lying on the floor in front of him, he has been forced to learn and memorize, because deep down he always knew that Sherlock Holmes was only to be his for a limited amount of time. He has had him for almost 17 years now, in every capacity available. As a friend, a partner, a lover, a love, even as an enemy for a short period of time, and from the beginning simply as a flatmate. That was how they started this journey. This is how they are ending it.

He reaches out his hand and Sherlock opens his eyes, as if knowing what John is about to do, raising his own hand, letting himself be pulled up from the floor.  
For a second they just stand in front of each other, staring. Then John steps forward and they embrace.  
His grip grows firmer, his fingers digging into Sherlock’s back. The cold air in the room make their naked bodies begin to shiver but John just remain where he is, hugging even harder. He can feel Sherlock’s heart beating as his face presses against his chest. It sounds vibrant. Full of life.

“You have to let go eventually” Sherlock finally says.

“I know. I will,” John whispers.

And then he does.


End file.
